


Meat Cute

by Nanimok



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Horror, Drama, Dubious Ethics, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Gore, Honestly not as bad as the tag makes it to be it's a Hannibal AU SO, M/M, Murder, Psychological Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: More than anything, Jason is scared of losing his mind. NBC Hannibal AU.





	Meat Cute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chibi_nightowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi_nightowl/gifts).



> A list of thank you's because without them I would be lost and this fic would be too:  
> \- [darklordtomarry (das_omen)](http://darklordtomarry.tumblr.com) for all the lovely sources and giving me advice (she's my dark themes senpai).  
> \- [min](http://beta-lactamase.tumblr.com) for help with the tags and all the encouragements for Dark!Tim (she's my dark themes senpai too).  
> \- [franzwantscoffee](http://franzwantscoffee.tumblr.com) for the _amazing artwork you will def know when you see it_.  
>  \- [cybrid](http://cybrid.tumblr.com) for the title.
> 
> For the amazing [chibinightowl](http://chibinightowl.tumblr.com) because we were discussing it and if she were to pick it up and add it to her pile of 600 WIPS I don't think anyone will be complaining.
> 
> Based on NBC's Hannibal, S1 Ep 11: Rôti and some dialogue inspired by S1 Ep 2:Amuse-Bouche.

More than anything, Jason is scared of losing his mind.

 

* * *

 

“—and seriously, the film was _weird_. The cinematography was great; it was pretty to look at, which figures, if they have all that money to hire the A-list actors—hey, Tim, did you see where I put the turmeric?”

Tim doesn’t looks up from his chopping board, focused on trimming the a slither of fat with the tip of his knife.

“Sorry?” Tim asks. “What turmeric?”

Jason twists around the marble counter. “The turmeric I placed around here like a second ago.” He ducks, searching the cabinets below. “You didn’t move it by accident did you? Because I placed it right here. God, I swear I did.”

“Nope. Haven’t moved from here at all,” Tim replies. He puts down the knife and nods at the spice racket. “Do you mean that jar of turmeric?”

“What?” Jason asks, spinning round. “How—”

On Tim’s spice rack, slotted right in the middle of others like it, stands a small glass jar filled yellow powder. Right where it should be, and right where Jason recalls taking it from ten minutes ago.

Tim walks over and plucks the jar off the rack with his clean hand, putting it on the counter in front of Jason. “Silly goose,” he says, amused. “Didn’t think someone with your powers of observation would miss something as teeny as this jar. Or the salt shaker yesterday, or your cup of tea the day beforehand. Really, Jay, I’m starting to think that you’re getting on in your years.”

No answer from Jason. Instead, Jason stares at the jar and tries to not to let his uneasiness clog his throat.

Tim’s smile flicks down. A line creases the space between his eyebrows. “Jason?”

Even though Tim is almost a head shorter, he almost hovers over Jason with his worry.

“Jason?” Tim asks, again. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jason says, shaking his head. He gives Tim a shaky smile. “Yeah. I guess I’m not over that cold as I thought I was. Anyway, where was I?”

 

* * *

 

That’s how it starts, with cold symptoms and misplaced kitchen utensils, so innocuous in its subtlety that it’s downright menacing.

Jason is no stranger to nightmares. Part of his pure empathy means he can never truly escape the crime scene, least of all when he closes his eyes. Phantom images, smells, and urges would strike him at odd times of the day. Sometimes, they’re so real and graphic that it trickles through the fibres of his consciousness.

Sometimes, Jason closes his eyes to the pounding of his headache, and opens them to blood seeping out of eye sockets. Sometimes, rotting corpses move around him, with stitched mouths and white, blank faces. Sometimes, they corpses rip the threads of their mouth open and pours out a thick, black, viscous liquid.

Every single time, Jason blinks and they disappear.

 

* * *

 

"Sionis haunts you, Jason," Tim says, skimming through his bookcase. "A part of him stays with you and it's visible. Is it guilt, then? Even though shooting him saved his daughter from the sharp edge of her father's love?"

"No, not guilt," Jason says as he sits on Tim's office couch. "Shooting Sionis was ending a reign of dead teenage girls. So no, definitely not guilt."

"Pleasure, then?" Tim asks. "There's a morbid tragedy here; the full and thorough corruption of a man to the point of being so bad that killing him felt good."

"Killing him felt just," Jason says.

"And how does that compare to the feeling of saving his daughter?" Tim says. "Good? Intense? _Powerful?_ "

"Hell, what do you want me to say, Tim?" Jason asks. 

"Whatever you want to, Jason," Tim says. He points at the walls. "It's between me, you, and these four walls, so whatever thoughts are swimming in your head, let's address it."

Tim sits in the chair across from him, crossing one leg on top of another.

"When you raised your gun to shoot Sionis, you chose to end his life because you understand why he did the things he did, acutely so, and why he would never choose to stop otherwise," Tim says. "So you made the decision for him. A form of vigilante justice."

"Not sure what you need me here for if you've already got me all figured out," Jason says, amused.

"Not all," Tim says. "It's not the act of killing Sionis that haunts you is it? Do you really feel so bad because killing Sionis felt so good?"

Jason clenches his fist. "I liked killing Sionis," Jason says, finally. "What does that say about me?"

"A slight penchant for vindictiveness, perhaps, but how do you measure and compare to your peers? How do you quantify such a quality as to define it as normal and common, as opposed to what's abnormal and uncommon, in regards to a population?"

Jason shrugs.

"Not everything is life is discrete, least of all morality, " Tim says. "But you made the conscious decision to not become like Sionis. I think we can count that as a victory."

"Even if it felt good to kill him?" Jason asks.

Tim gives him a dimpled smile. "Even if it felt good to kill him," Tim says. "As always, this stays between me, you and these four walls."

 

* * *

 

It's because of conversations like this, that Jason thinks Tim will understand, that Tim won't be horrified when Jason tells him about his dreams. But that's not true. Tim's never felt the heady, powerful, _invigorating_ rush of killing someone in his life. Giving voice to the unmentionables. The satisfaction, the pleasure—the guilt and the shame that comes after.

Jason likes pretending that Tim understands. His own little confidant. The companionship is something he dearly treasures.

 

* * *

 

The worst feeling in the world, Jason decides, is being graced with a sliver hope only for it to be taken away.

There’s a bleak pit at the bottom of his stomach, and it threatens to drag Jason under. Jason stares at the black and white image in front of him, his ears ringing. He anchors himself to the strong solid weight of Tim’s hand on his shoulder, because, at this point, it’s the only thing keeping him tethered in reality.

He must look pitiful; sunken eyed, a little clammy and a whole lot desperate for someone to finally, _finally,_ tell Jason what’s wrong with him.

“Could you repeat that again?” Jason asks. “Please? Doc?”

“There were no abnormalities found in your MRI scan,” Dr. Elliot says. “No structural anomalies, and no functional anomalies. Everything is functioning as it should be, at least from these readings. As far as we’re aware of, your brain is perfectly healthy.”

He hands Jason a black and white scan of his brain, and Jason’s eyelids are stuck as he pours over every single ridge of the image.

“Nothing?” Jason croaks. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Elliot confirms.

“So all these—" _delusions, voices,_ “—headaches and constant migraines?”

Dr. Elliot is consoling, apologetic even, but Jason can read the between the lines crinkling his face.

_You’re going crazy._

“These scans will be referred to your general practitioner, and I will have my secretary send you office hours if you’d like to discuss these scans further,” Dr. Elliot says. “But I assure you, Mr. Todd, that there is no neurological abnormality found with your brain.”

In the car, Tim lets them slide into a tentative silence before speaking. “We could always go get another scan if you want a second opinion,” he says.

“No.” Jason exhales a shaky breath. “I’ve—no. It’s fine. I’ll just keep taking the migraine pills the doc prescribed.”

Tim’s eyes dart to him, his hands firm on the steering wheel. “I think we should,” he says. “I get the feeling that you weren’t being completely honest with Dr. Elliot.”

Jason doesn’t reply. He leans his head against the glass and watches rows of houses and trees pass by.

When Tim speaks, his voice is gentler than it has any right to be. As if he’s scared that Jason will jump out of the running car if he chose the wrong words.

“What are you so afraid of, Jason?” Tim asks.

It’s not something he could encode properly into words. Tim doesn’t look at him like other people do. Tim looks at him, the man who walks through crime scenes in the killers shoes, and he doesn’t flinch. He finds him marvellous. Magnificent, even. When Tim looks at him, there’s pure, unaltered pride, and it makes Jason feels as resilient as Tim believes him to be.

As resilient as Jason desperately wants to be.

Jason imagines the smile on Tim’s face twisting into fear. He imagines that fear directed at him.

“Nothing,” Jason says. “It’s—nothing. I’ll be fine.”

* * *

 

Jason dreams of cracking open a chest cavity and palming the warm, wet organ with his hands. He dreams of his finger down the slippery toughness of a diaphragm, and imagines inhaling the pungent, acrid, bitter smell of offal. He savours every second of it. The crunching and the slick squelching sounds like singing to him.

A blink later, and Jason finds out that he’s not dreaming after all.

Sweat drips from his face, his head is pounding, and one of his hand is digging into the steering wheel of his car while the other clutches a gun. His headlights are still on. Huh.

He was doing something before this, something important, but he can’t put his finger on it—Tim. That’s right. He was going to find Tim.

“Mr. Todd, I highly advise that you drive yourself to a hospital. You are extremely unwell.”

Jason’s head snaps up from lolling. His eyes meet Dr. Elliot’s in the rear-view window, flicks down to the manila folder sitting on the passenger seat and to Dr. Elliot’s hands cuffed in front of him.

A surge of anger wells up in him.

“Shut up," Jason says, turning off car and pointing to the door with his gun. “Shut up and walk to the door. No funny business or I’ll blast your kneecaps off.”

Any other day, and Jason could convince himself that he’s bluffing. Today, however, he follows closely behind the barrel of his gun pressed at Dr. Elliot’s back. He raps on the door three times, careful to keep his knuckles from shaking. With every second that passes, his grip on the folder tightens until the door opens—

—and Tim is there, his hair combed and shirt tucked into his dress pants, always so impeccable. 

Trustworthy.

His eyes scan over him, over the doctor, and widens. “Jason?”

Jason barges past him and drags Dr. Elliot into Tim’s dining room. Fire crackles in the hearth, and a half-finished plate of food sits on the dining table, a cosy picture. Jason doesn’t let himself feel sorry for interrupting on Tim’s dinner.

Chucking the folder on the table, he shoves Dr. Elliot into a seat at the head of the table, and aims the gun between his eyes.

Dr. Elliot stiffens, and Tim takes a slow, careful step towards him.

“Not that I don’t enjoy your company,” Tim says, “I always do, but I’ll enjoy it more without that gun. Please put it down, Jason.”  

“He’s working with the Gotham Ripper,” Jason says,

“What?”

“You heard me; he’s been working with the Gotham Ripper!” Jason says again, ignoring the way the gun rattles and shakes in his hand. “I _knew_ it! He—he _duped_ us—gave us the wrong brain scan, making me believe I was _crazy_ when I’ve just been sick all this time. And for what? I thought, what would he have to gain by all of _this_? Why would he even care? The only person who’d do something, who’d fuck with my mind, is the same person who tailored all those tiny details in the Frost murders for me to notice—”

“Jason, slow down.”

“The Gotham Ripper, Tim!” Jason says, waving the gun. “Don’t you see? He’s working the Gotham Ripper!”

“I know, I know. I heard you, Jason,” Tim says, trying to soothe with the softness of his tone. “But you have to slow down, and listen to me, alright?”

Jason swallows, his finger clammy on the trigger. “I—I’m listening.”

“Who is the ‘ _he’_ you are talking about?”

The grip on his gun slackens. Dread bubbles in his stomach. “What?” Jason asks.

Across the table, Dr. Elliot blinks at him from where he sits. Tim—doesn’t even glance in that direction. All of his worry is channeled onto Jason, and he’s looking at Jason like he’s a wild animal ready to snap.  

“We should sit,” Tim says. “You should put the gun down. Come sit beside me, Jay, and we can talk about who you think is working with the Gotham Ripper.”

“What do you mean who I think is working with the Gotham Ripper?” Jason asks, incredulous. He jerks at the head of the table with his gun. “He is! Him! Dr. Thomas Elliot!”

His vision blurs and his sweat is making the handle of the gun wet, but he can still see Dr. Elliot sitting three meters away from them

Tim finally turns his head over, and his frown deepens. Dr. Elliot says nothing, only stares back at Tim.

“Jason,” Tim says. “Tell me what you see.”

“What game are you playing at, Tim? You know what I’m seeing.”

“Humour me, then,” Tim says. “Describe it. Tell me what you see.”

Jason breathes out, gathers his wits. “I see Doctor Elliot, with his wrists cuffed in front of him, sitting in that chair.”

“ _Oh_ , Jason,” Tim says, and this time he sounds absolutely _distraught._

"Why," Jason asks, "do you sound like that?"

"Jason, listen to me," Tim says. “There’s nobody there.”

Jason freezes. A chill submerges his body. “What?”

“No one is sitting in that chair.”

Carefully, Dr. Elliot blinks in his seat again, and Jason realises that, while he spoke to Jason in the car, he hasn’t said a single thing since coming into Tim’s dining room.

But he can’t be wrong—he can’t. He’s already lost so many things in his life. Please, don’t let his mind be one of them.

Jason sucks in his cheeks and shakes his head, the movement becomes so frayed that he trembles. “No, no, no,” Jason pleads. “Tim, _please_. He’s right _there.”_

“I think you should put the gun down.”

“No, look! He’s right there!” He takes one hand to slick across the hair plastered on his forehead. “If you don’t believe me, I can still prove it to you. The file—there’s a file of my actual MRI scans—they’re on the table—”

The table, when Jason turns around, is clear of anything but Tim’s half eaten dinner.

“No,” Jason says, weakly.

Was Tim right? Was Jason imagining these things?

He stumbles forward, dropping the gun as he went. Scrambling on his knees, he crawls and looks under the table, the rug and the chairs, chanting, ‘ _no, no, no,’_ under his breath, a prayer to stave of his impending insanity. His chest constricts, and he almost hiccups from the stutter in his breathing. He jerks wildly when someone pulls him back, only to find himself seated a minute later with Tim kneeling in front of him.

Control slips from him—his tongue feels thick and clumsy, and his head feels too unbalanced for his neck.

Jason clutches on the arms of his chair. “I don’t understand,” he says. “It was right there, and it was real. The files were real. There _is_ something wrong, you have to believe me.”

Is he begging? It sounds like begging.

Tim chooses his words carefully and reaches out to cradle Jason’s face. “I believe that there _is_ something wrong with you,” he says, sweeping more of Jason’s fringe off his face. “I believe you’re having an episode right now.”

Both of his hands grasps Tim’s forearms. “But—but. The files.”

That makes the lines of Tim’s face crease deeper, and Jason’s gut twinges.

Because he can handle a lot of things—dead bodies and scared victims, gore, horror and terror—but he can’t handle Tim looking at him like _that._  

“I’m not okay, am I?” Jason asks, quietly.

“I’m going to try something,” Tim says. “I know you don’t feel like it, but I’m going to need you to smile for me.”

Tim demonstrates by smiling, his lips pulling up into a natural curl, a smile that’s always made something in Jason flutter. Jason tries to imitate, adding a bit of teeth for sincerity. The muscles of his cheek ache from the strain.

All the while, Tim still cradles his head with solid, sturdy hands, and Jason hates how it makes him look manic by comparison. One of his thumb travels to the edge of Jason’s smile and tugs it upwards, deforming it.

“Good.” Tim mutters, soft and praising. “I’m going to take care of you, Jason. I’m going to take you to the guest room, and bring you something that will help calm you. Tomorrow, we see another doctor—hell, we can go see ten—and schedule another scan. You can trust me, alright?”

“Alright,” Jason says, voice tremulous. “Alright.”

Tim slides Jason forward, and Jason buries his face into his neck, grounding himself in the smell of fabric softener and wool.

He can’t trust himself—he doesn’t even know when he lost control—but he can trust in Tim. If his mind is no longer his own, then he will gift it to Tim and hope that Tim leads him right.

* * *

 

Morning comes and hits him like a smack to the face.

Sluggish, hazy and uncertain, Jason staggers out of bed and dry heaves in the sink. He gags to the sound of running water, slams his chest and claws at his throat an effort to dislodge _whatever_ it is that’s sticking out like a sharp and foreign object in his body.

One final heave and he coughs his relief. Jason splashes water on his face, rubbing the bleariness away.

When he look down from the mirror, there’s a human ear in the sink.

 

* * *

 

Jason doesn’t know who looks worse; him in his pyjamas, pale and sickly, or Dick in his work suit with bags under his puffy eyes.

He’s always been on the other side of the table as the interrogator, the person unfolding secrets out of unwilling mouths, and never as the person with their hand cuffed to the table. Well, Jason guesses, there’s a first for everything. Even killing someone and completely forgetting about it.

Shifting his gaze, Jason focuses his hands, on Dick’s tie, on the table—on anywhere to avoid the disappointment in Dick’s trying so hard to hide from his face.

“Where were you between the hours of eight and nine pm yesterday?”

“I don’t know,” Jason says. “I think I was with Tim.”

“You _think_ you were with Tim?”

“I _was_ with Tim later on that night,” Jason says with a lot more conviction. “I don’t…recall much beforehand.”

Dick raises on eyebrow, his eyes searching on Jason’s. “Do you remember roughly what time you left the house? If anything was on at the radio or if you stopped by any petrol stations at some point?”

Jason shakes his head. “No, I don’t remember doing any of that.”

“Do you, perchance, remember when you arrived at Tim’s? Or if you visited Dr. Thomas Elliot’s office at any point of yesterday?”

Jason is quiet for a minute. “No. I don’t remember that, as well.”

 _“Jason.”_ Dick leans back, shoulders laden with exhaustion. “Little wing, _please_. I want to help you, I really do, but I need more than that to do so—”

“I can vaguely recall a sequence of events of what I _think_ happened,” Jason says. “I don’t conclusively know; I was having an episode, and even that much was blurry. That’s why I went to Tim, because I needed him to tell me what was real and what wasn’t.”

“How long have you been having these episodes?”

“Since the Frost’s murders,” Jason admits, more to himself than to Dick.

“The Frost murders?” Dick asks, baffled. “That was _weeks_ ago. Why didn’t you tell me or Barbara about this?”

“I don’t know!” Jason says. “I thought it wasn’t anything past normal. I always get nightmares when I work on cases. You know this, Dick!”

“Not to the point of where you’re losing yourself. Losing flashes of time isn’t normal, Jason! And hallucinating while you’re awake?” Dick opens the file on their table and splays the pictures out. “Let’s walk this through, shall we? This morning, Dr. Thomas Elliot did not show up for work. He does this without notice, something his secretary notes was unusual given his top-notch attendance record. Forensics confirmed that his DNA and the _ear you coughed up_ are a match. There were _blood splatters_ found in your car, Jason. No one would be surprised if the blood was a match as well. Do you want to know what all these evidence suggests?”

“I…” Jason says. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Give me _something_ , Jason,” Dick says. “Dr. Thomas Elliot is still missing, and right now, it looks as if you attacked him because the results of your MRI scan were not the ones you were hoping for.”

Jason doesn’t answer, only looking down on his blunt fingernails.  

“This is my fault,” Dick says, rubbing his face. “You warned me that the cases would affect you, and I didn’t listen. I thought you would come back—because that’s what you always did—so I pushed, and I pushed, and—god, Jason, just tell me the truth.”

“He was there—in my hallucinations,” Jason says. “I remember that much. Other than that, what can I say? Even hallucinating out of my mind, I didn’t kill him or bite off his ear. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t, Dick. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Dick looks wrecked, more so than he does.

“There’s no other option then,” Dick says. “I’m sorry, Jason. You’re under arrest for the probable murder of Thomas Elliot.”

 

* * *

 

“There has to be physical reason for Jason’s instability,” Barbara says, following Dick into his office. “Jason’s a good man, and yes, he’s a good liar, but that man on the other side of the glass is nothing but overwrought.”

"It could still be an act," Dick says, closing the door behind her and ruffles his hair. “Jason’s a good man because he chooses to be, and Lord knows, that’s a hard choice to make when you see the things he sees on a daily basis.”

“Yes, well," Barbara says. "We both know who made the decision to put him in the field.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Dick asks. “Continue letting innocent people die? Jason is the only one who could think like them. He's our only hope of a breakthrough when it comes serial killers like that.”

“Regardless, he’s not a psychopath,” Barbara says vehemently, rummaging through her bag. “He’s the exact opposite of that. Even if he is, that doesn’t automatically mean that he committed all those murders.”

“He has the access, Babs,” Dick says, sitting on his desk, playing devil’s advocate to someone he loved like a brother. “Jason’s also brilliant, so he has ability to stay one step ahead of the FBI, and he has, possibly, the profile for it too. The amount of circumstantial evidence collected this morning—”

“Is convincing—I agree—but Jason could still be right about Dr. Elliot. Hear me out, Dick,” Barbara says, rustling through the pages of her notebook. “Maybe he was onto something. Maybe Dr. Elliot _did_ mess with his results. He’s not himself. Look.”

Dick takes the notebook from Barbara. Each page has a lopsided clock drawn on it, the numbers haywire and clustered on one side of the page.

“I had him draw these this morning,” Barbara stresses. “He thinks they’re all straight. I compared these to the ones Tim had him draw weeks ago, and this is a new development. It lines up time-wise with some of his more extreme actions.”

Dick runs one thumb down the page. “Do you have an idea of what he could have?”

“Tim and I...we have our suspicions,” Barbara says. “At this point, we both agree that his behaviour is consistent with people suffering from advanced stages of encephalitis.”

“What motive would Dr. Elliot have for obstructing Jason’s results?”

“That’s something we’ll have to find out, isn’t it?”

An insanity plea, Dick thinks. They could work with that.

“Whatever authorization I have that you’ll need to build the case, you have it,” Dick says, handing the book back to Barbara. “Call up Tim. He’ll be able to help. Get whatever you need to take Jason out of prison and into Arkham. Good luck, Babs.”

* * *

+

* * *

 

* * *

+

* * *

 

After lugging Jason to bed and slipping him pills that knocks him out cold, Tim heads back to his dining room finish his cold dinner and entertain his unwanted guest.

The manila folder sits pressed against his back, halfway tucked under his sweater and pants. Tim slips it out and chucks it into his fireplace, taking great pleasure in watching the edges crinkle into ash. He turns around with a smile that hints of sharp teeth and ripped flesh.

“I appreciate your co-operation in staying silent,” Tim says, sitting in his seat. “Although, I wonder what I paid good money for if you didn’t do half of what was instructed.”

“I was curious,” Dr. Elliot says. “Your profiler was muttering the most interesting things in the car.”

“Oh?” Tim asks, stabbing into his pork chop.

“He was more or less open about being the profiler working on the Ripper case; he let it slip in between his mumbling. The conclusions, afterward, came as naturally as breathing. I wanted to know if the reality lived up to the legend,” Dr. Elliot says. He tilts his head. “Admittedly, the reality came up a bit shorter than my expectations.”

Midway from cutting his broccoli, Tim regards the curve of his knife. One of Jason’s steel Japanese steak set. Sharp and sleek, it really does glimmer beautifully. It also sits very comfortably in his hand.

Jason’s gun is still on the floor, halfway between him and Dr. Elliot. Tim pretends not to notice the way Dr. Elliot is eyeing it.

“Hush,” Tim greets.

“The Gotham Ripper,” Dr. Elliot greets back. “You’re a lot younger than what I envisioned. It’s interesting, however, that you have an extensive range of victims under your belt. They almost seem random.”

“Art. Amusement. Some of them were just plain rude,” Tim says. “Take it however you will, I guarantee that end result is always delectable.”

Dr. Elliot nods to the fireplace. “Quite a grand show you were putting on for your profiler. What would have happened, I wonder, if I had opened my mouth and told him you paid me to fake his results?”

“You wouldn’t be able to laud it over me, that’s for sure,” Tim says. “How does it feel to have someone a decade younger make your life work seem like petty burglary in comparison?”

“Ah, the arrogance of youth,” Dr. Elliot says. “I don’t take pride in collecting other people’s scraps.”

“Recognizing the benefits of working under obscurity isn’t a hard concept,” Tim says. “Or one wouldn’t think so, anyway.”

Dr. Elliot leans forward. “Preaching of obscurity all the while you’re dying for your profiler to acknowledge you. It's a little pathetic, don't you think?”

“Haven’t you ever met a mind so fascinating, so compatible to yours, that it would be a crime to not help him reach his full potential?” Tim asks. “Jason notices every intricate detail; the purpose of every slice, which breath was their last. All from the finished exhibition. He’s lovely that way. His mind is absolutely stunning, and I wouldn’t expect you to understand—”

Dr. Elliot dives for the gun.

But Tim is prepared. He kicks the gun and it skitters under the table a second before Dr. Elliot lands on the floor.

Tim clutches the knife and slips behind Dr. Elliot while he scrambles upright. With one great heave, he wraps his forearm around Dr. Elliot’s neck, and drags him into a chokehold, backing him away from the table. Dr. Elliot jerks, digging his fingers into Tim’s arm. Tim almost tips over from the momentum, but he digs his heels in and _squeezes_.

Then, to drown the choking noises, Tim starts counting.

_One. Two. Three—_

At ten seconds, Dr. Elliot becomes deadweight in his arms, but Tim doesn’t relax. At sixty five seconds Tim knows that it’s permanent. His body thuds as it hits the ground, and Tim drops onto the floor, panting.

Hush, or Thomas Elliot, was a fool for not running as soon as he got here. Then again, Tim thinks, as he observes Elliot’s dead body and Jason’s MRI scans, he understands the appeal of a good challenge. At least Hush was polite enough not to get blood on his rug.

And now, he’s given Tim the use of his body, which more than makes up for interrupting his dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> As for roles:  
> \- Jason and Tim: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.  
> \- Dick and Barbarba: Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom.  
> \- Roman Sionis: Jacob Garrett Hobbs - the killer in the first episode that Will kills to stop him from killing his daughter.  
> \- Hush/Thomas Elliot - another serial killer in Gotham.  
> \- Gotham is abundant with serial killers trust me.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think! (I love reading your comments and I swear I will reply to you all one day.) 
> 
> Possible sequel where Jason fights back is in the works >:3c
> 
> Find me on [my tumblr.](http://fatcatsarecats.tumblr.com)


End file.
